[ A VISIT TO FINLAND.]
DAVID KER.
[Finland is now Northern Russia, and the Finns are classed as Russians; but it is so only in autocratic decrees and tax-lists. The Finns cannot, by any governmental metamorphosis, be transformed into Russians, and their land will still retain its individuality. In winter it lies deep within the domain of the ice-king. How it appears in summer is described in the following record of travel.]
“Why don’t you go to Imatra?” asks my friend P—— as we lean over the side of the Peterhof steamer and watch the golden domes of St. Petersburg rising slowly from the dull gray level of the Gulf of Finland. “Now that you’ve seen a bit of Central Russia, that’s the next thing for you to do. Go to Imatra, and I’ll go too.”
“And where on earth is Imatra?” ask I, innocently.
“Oh, come! you don’t mean to say you’ve never heard of Imatra? Why, everybody knows it. Let’s go there next week.”
Nevertheless, it so happens that I have not heard of Imatra,—an ignorance probably shared by most people out of Russia, and perhaps not a few in it. But I am destined to a speedier acquaintance than I had anticipated with the famous waterfall (or “foss,” as the natives call it), which, lying forty miles due north of the Finnish port of Viborg, close to the renowned “Saima Lake,” attracts the amateur fishermen of St. Petersburg by scores every summer....
Accordingly, behold all our preparations made,—knapsacks packed, tear-and-wear garments put in requisition, many-colored Russian notes exchanged (at a fearful discount) for dingy Finnish silver,—and at half-past ten on a not particularly bright July morning we stand on the deck of the anything but “good ship” “Konstantin,” bound for Viborg.
Despite her tortoise qualities as a steamer, however (which prolong our voyage to nearly nine hours), the vessel is really luxurious in her accommodations; and were her progress even slower, the motley groups around us (groups such as only Dickens could describe or Leech portray) would sufficiently beguile the time,—jaunty boy-officers in brand-new uniforms, gallantly puffing their papirossi (paper cigarettes) in defiance of coming nausea, and discussing the merits of the new opera loud enough to assure every one within earshot that they know nothing whatever about it; squat Finnish peasants, whose round, puffy faces and thick yellow hair are irresistibly suggestive of over-boiled apple-dumplings; gray-coated Russian soldiers, with the dogged endurance of their race written in every line of their patient, stolid, unyielding faces; a lanky Swede, whose huge cork hat and broad collar give him the look of an exaggerated medicine-bottle; the inevitable tourist in the inevitable plaid suit, struggling with endless convolutions of fishing-tackle and hooking himself in a fresh place at every turn; three or four pale-faced clerks on leave, looking very much as if their “overwork” had been in some way connected with cigars and bad brandy; a German tradesman from Vasili-Ostroff (with the short turnip-colored moustache characteristic of Wilhelm in his normal state), in dutiful attendance on his wife, who is just completing her preparations for being comfortably ill as soon as the vessel starts; and a fine specimen of the real British merchant, talking vehemently (in a miraculous dialect of his own invention) to a Russian official, whose air of studied politeness shows plainly that he does not understand a word of his neighbor’s discourse.
Directly we go off the rain comes on, with that singular fatality characteristic of pleasure-trips in general, arising, doubtless, from the mysterious law which ordains that a man shall step into a puddle the instant he has had his boots blacked, and that a piece of bread-and-butter shall fall (how would Sir Isaac Newton have accounted for it?) with the buttered side downward. In a trice the deck is deserted by all save two or three self-devoted martyrs in mackintosh, who “pace the plank” with that air of stern resolution worn by an Englishman when dancing a quadrille or discharging any other painful duty. The scenery throughout the entire voyage consists chiefly of fog, relieved by occasional patches of sand-bank; and small wonder if the superior attractions of the well-spread dinner-table detain most of our fellow-sufferers below. What is this first dish that they offer us? Raw salmon, by the shade of Soyer! sliced thin and loaded with pepper. Then follow soup, fried trout, roast beef, boiled ditto, slices of German sausage, neck of veal and bacon, fried potatoes and cabbage. Surely, now, “Hold, enough!” Not a bit of it: enter an enormous plum-pudding, which might do duty for a globe at any provincial school; next, a dish of rice and preserve, followed by some of the strongest conceivable cheese; finally, strawberries and bilberries, with cream and sugar ad libitum. Involuntarily I recall the famous old American story of the “boss” at a railway refreshment-room who demanded fifty cents extra from a passenger who stuck to the table after all the rest had dined and gone away. “Your board says, ’Dinner, three dollars and fifty cents!’” remonstrated the victim.—“Ah! that’s all very well for reasonable human bein’s with one stomach apiece,” retorted the Inexorable; “but when a feller eats as if there were no hereafter, we’ve got to pile it on!”